A New Year's Eve Conversation
by Dream Wreaver
Summary: In which the Writer discusses the end with the King and his Champion. Little bit of meta-fluff because we could always use more fluff. Somewhat implied SxJ, maybe, possibly, if you squint...


Last story of this year and I have to tell you I can't wait for this natural of a disaster of a year to finally come to a close. We all lost a great many this year, some, like our King, who we share in our grief collectively. Some of us feel the pain more keenly than others. But through it all I'm so glad I have you guys in my life, you don't even know. But that's not what you're here for, so please enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth

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The young writer sat back, putting her tools of the trade to the side. Nearly complete, she was almost there. So close, and yet so far as the end while in sight, still felt miles away. She was more than ready for the end to come. This year had been one of the worst in her memory, and it seemed that like always the bad outweighed the good.

"Isn't it that way with every year?" a voice came from over by her mirror.

She turned and looked, and there he was in all his eternal encapsulated glory, "Your majesty," she bowed her head in respect.

Another figured entered the frame and she amended her statement, "Your majesties," she bowed her head again, too comfortable to get up and bow. Insolent, but she had been through a lot. She earned her share of snarkiness no matter who it was directed to.

Of course, the other one always took offense, even if it was more in jest these days, "He's the great glittery Goblin King. What I did was temporary, _tem-por-ar-y_ ," she spelled out.

The writer raised a brow at the girl, "Says one person," she informed her, "One very influential person, by internet standards," she allowed, "but how many other stories have had you two producing little Goblin Heirs by now?" she smirked at the girl's flush, "And if I recall correctly, some in quite explicit detail."

"We do not talk about those!" the girl shouted, in higher and higher staccato with each word.

"If that is what her majesty wishes," the writer replied, "And you, my king? How has your evening been thus far?"

"Pleasant," he replied, "For the most part. So many stories, so many lines of continuity to keep straight. You could not even _begin_ to comprehend the intricacies and various headaches involved with being a metafictional, beloved cult classic character: especially when certain parties," he gave her a pointed look here, "Insist on using us to cope with their own dull, mundane realities."

"Amen to that," his female companion agreed.

The writer rolled her eyes, "Surely it's not that bad," she replied, "It certainly can't be as bad as it was before-" she cut herself off, "Before." She left it at that.

He mused on her words, "I suppose you have a point," he allowed her, "There are some who have taken certain events personally enough to stop altogether. Rather tragic in one respect, and yet much less taxing and easier to manage,"

"How nice for you," the writer rolled her eyes again.

"And then, there are those like you, who continue to write, or draw, or create regardless." He finished.

She pinked at his praise, just a little, "I never was one for rolling over and dying," she informed them, "I'd rather turn my pain into passion. And I think, I think He would have wanted that too."

"Ah yes, the eponymous He that people all too often conflict with _me_."

"You are one and the same,"

"We are not!"

"In some respects," she finished, "You, as a concept, did exist separately from Him. But it was He who made you who you are now. Our further interpretation of you all stem from Him. Give credit where it is due."

He muttered and she shot him a look. The writer ignored both of them.

"It's understandable that people want to mourn. I'm still in denial, a little. I accept that people accept it, but personally I still don't believe it really happened."

"Why?"

"Because, oh, this is going to sound absolutely ridiculous but," she took a deep breath, "I always thought that I would be mourning with _my_ children when it happened. That I would be middle-aged and they would have been raised immersed in the world He helped create. That they would understand my sadness but not my grief, but accept it as small children often do, because they're so empathetic. You never expect your idols to die, foolish as that sounds. But then, we've already been over this."

"Yes," he nodded, there was really no need to rehash what had already been hashed.

"I can completely empathize with those who stopped, life gets in the way and when a Muse dies, sometimes there's nothing you can do. I lose passion for projects, but I never stop loving them. But then, I'm not everyone. No one is everyone."

"Well said," the other female chimed in.

"Thank you," the writer said, "Dare I ask how Yuletide was?"

"In which universe?" the other asked.

"Whichever you choose. I don't particularly have a preference."

"Well, it's gone about as well as you would expect," said the King, "Goblins love a good party."

"And you don't?" the writer teased.

"Please," the girl joined in, "He was getting just as plastered as the rest of them."

They shared a short laugh at his expense. She looked at the clock, still some hours to go.

"No matter how far you think, time is short," he reminded her.

"Well it certainly doesn't seem that way," the writer parried, "I'm more than ready to end this year."

"Yes, yes, we know." They chorused, making her laugh again.

"Yes, well, this year has been… unprecedented, especially the last couple of days. It just, it feels like something's ending. Something big."

"When you can only go forwards, go forwards with hope," the King told her.

The writer looked at them and smiled, "I'll try. Happy New Year my King, my Champion."

"Happy New Year," they bid her.

"Do you think you'll ever end up together?" she asked.

They looked at each other, "That's not entirely for us to say." Said the champion.

"We have many flaws, but it's always something to hope for," the King added.

"All we can tell you is to keep hoping, no matter what: never give up your hope."

The writer felt a tear come to her eye, "Thank you," she whispered, her voice broken by emotion, "Thank you, for everything. Every minute, every hour, every idea, every story, every picture. Even the ones left undone. I wouldn't change any of it for the world."

They shared a smile as they faded from sight, "Neither would we."

When she was once more alone the writer looked out her window. It was black as pitch outside, and still. The same kind of stillness that comes with an ending, that precedes a new beginning. And with that new beginning, a hope for tomorrow.

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Again, I want to thank you guys for being in my life. You guys are awesome and without you... well, I'm not sure where I would be. I hope you all have a wonderful New Year. Until next time, fairfarren my lovelies!


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